


Emergency

by feedmyflame



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood Sharing, Bloodplay, Dry Fucking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Sex with Clothes On, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, dom!Elena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feedmyflame/pseuds/feedmyflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mystic Grill store room probably wasn't built for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelsey Powerlesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kelsey+Powerlesbian).



> Happy birthday, Kelsey!

Elena rocks forward as subtly as possible against the barstool as she reaches for her phone, setting her drink down. It isn’t the first she’s had, but she’s not as drunk as she wants to be—damn vampire metabolism. She selects her favorite contact and taps out a message:

_emergency. meet me at the grill_

She’s spent the last hour on the stool listening to Caroline, who has somehow managed to outpace her liver. Despite her best efforts at paying attention, Elena’s gaze keeps wandering away from her almost-slurring friend, jumping restlessly around the Grill and landing, over and over, on one member of the staff in particular. Just to make sure he’s okay, she tells herself. There isn’t any immediate danger at his workplace that day, as far as she knows, but…well, it’s Mystic Falls, and some fresh hell could walk in any minute. Perfectly logical she’d want to keep an eye on him.

(It can’t have anything to do with the way he’d looked at her the night before, flitting guiltily over her silhouette, when she’d gone downstairs to grab a glass of water in just her towel, eyes sticking to bare flesh like her wet hair.) 

Caroline punctuates a particularly emphatic thought by grabbing Elena’s thigh, which happens to be bare below a rather immodest skirt, and Elena flinches, shifting again on her stool. Caroline’s been doing that all night. Her hand moves further up each time she does, and Elena has to keep reminding herself that Tyler is very territorial. 

Fucking wolves.

A buzz in her lap doesn’t help. The answering message is short:

_on my way_

As soon as she’s done reading it, she smells him; he’s through the door and barreling towards her.

She hides a predatory grin.

“Elena?” Damon’s voice is worried, protective. “What’s wrong?”

Caroline whips around in surprise at his presence and is suddenly wearing her very pink cocktail. When a busboy rushes over to mop her up, Elena steals a moment to bring Damon up to speed. It’s not exactly a mean feat; judging by the rapidly shifting expression on his face, he’s already caught the scent of her arousal mingling with the notes of pomegranate martini.

“What’s wrong is your tongue’s not inside me right now,” she answers, so low only he can hear. An exasperated sigh is cut off as she rests her hand against the front of his pants; he flinches instantly into her touch, trying in vain to shield the exchange from scandalized bar patrons.

“You said it was…hmm….an emergency,” Damon stutters, and she nearly laughs at his valiant attempt to stay mad.

“It is.” She presses against him and he abandons all attempts at continued indignation. He grabs her arm, dragging her towards the bathroom.

“No,” she says, tugging his shirt to redirect him. “The store room. We won’t get caught there.”

Not by the patrons, anyway.

Caroline looks around, confused at her sudden solitude.

"Where'd everybody go?" she asks no one in particular. She shrugs and flags down the bartender to replace the cocktail that now drenches her top.

She'll be drinking alone for a while.

*

The second the door swings shut behind them, Elena mashes into her boyfriend, bending his generous lips furiously with hers.

“Damon,” she whimpers, none too quietly, and that’s all it takes to catch him up. He backs her roughly against the opposite wall, knocking into storage shelves on the way. A bowl clatters to the floor and Elena laughs lust, fingers laced around his neck to keep him close.

“Jesus, Elena,” he moans, pressing their pelvises together. Hands wander recklessly over her, thumbing a nipple through her shirt, snaking down her hips. “You’re incredible.”

His voice is worshipful as always, and Elena aches to hear it deepen, hoarsen. She leans her shoulders into the wall and works one leg forward, rubbing friction between his legs, and his breathing heavies in her ear as he moves against her. He’s already hard, and her hands move his face up in front of hers so she can watch his eyes fall shut, his mouth fall open; he steadies himself against the wall behind her, bending slightly to rock against her thigh, and she relishes his distraction. Possessive fingers move to clutch his shirt, pulling him along her with fervent rhythm.

“Come, Damon,” she instructs, knowing it won’t take long for him to obey. “I want to hear you come, and then I want your fangs in my thigh.”

He’s a goner. She’s far too much for him, poor guy—the thought of her blood and the insistent nudges of her leg bring him to uncontrolled spasms, and his face falls into her neck to bury satisfying moans. They vibrate on Elena’s skin.

The predator's grin returns to her face.

He doesn’t even stop to catch his breath. It’s still sputtering as he moves his lips between her breasts, down the central line of her torso. The cotton of her shirt dampens and spots with sweat as he gracelessly bunches it up, freeing her stomach to feel his kisses.

Her head falls back against the store room wall, taut body arching into him as firm hands push against his shoulders. (She loves him on his knees.) Long before he breaches her skin, the concept of sharp teeth ripping her veins sets her clit pounding, and by the time his tongue finds her thigh she’s panting, 

“Hurry.”

He won’t though, not with this. When he tastes her blood her drinks of his religion, and what is religion without its rites?

(Doesn’t mean he has to be gentle, though. Just that he’ll take his time.)

His hand plays slowly on the skin above her knee, raising goosebumps, tender and sweet, then—she gasps in surprise as he slams bone against the wall, her left hip twisting open as her thigh presses against plaster. She moves appreciatively against his force and he holds her against the wall, fixing her leg in place to let him explore it properly, reverently. He can hear the network of veins crossing under olive skin, and he lets his mouth gravitate towards them. Slowly dragging his tongue along one vessel in particular, Damon breathes against frenzied pulsing that teases his fangs out before he means to unleash them.

Elena drops her head, tangled hair falling forward. Her lungs fill and empty audibly; the flesh smashed against the wall is lit up with need, and she feels wetness collect the second his fangs start to tickle her skin. Barely scratching, they draw laterally along her leg, and she digs her own teeth into her lip to stop herself from ordering him to bite down. He’ll bite when he’s ready. And she wants to be surprised.

Fangs hover at the boundaries of her flesh, poking gently over the largest vein, feeling its rhythm pushing back. Each beat of resistance piques Damon’s hunger, and he gives an involuntary moan; she matches it, tensing in preparation. 

One more second of delicious anticipation, readying them both for the exchange of life.

Then Damon drops his hand from her stomach to her cunt and ruptures smooth skin in one slick motion. She cries out, instantly panting and curling forward, and he drowns in the taste of sacrament. It’s thick, hot; his brow furrows in overwhelming pleasure as her vitality coats his teeth, lips, tongue. The adrenaline in her blood goes to his head; no one tastes as good as she does, especially when she’s hungering to come, and he starts to harden again.

The blood screams at Elena’s nerves as it rushes to his pull, dragging sensation along the inside of every vein, and she feels his influence far beyond the point of contact. Each swallow registers along her arms, chest, lower abdomen, and she melts against his fingers as they gently stroke her clit. He’s teasing her, the asshole; he won’t let her come yet, but fuck if he won’t get her close.

He won’t let her come until he’s in a position to taste it.

He’s usually more careful, but in his heedless rapture he’s let a few drops escape the suction of his lips. They run along the curve of her thigh, drawing red against tan, and fall to stain the store room floor. Not one for waste, Damon unhooks himself from her flesh and swirls his tongue through the unruly rivers, lazy ellipses wandering closer to the juncture of her hip. Sweet stains chart his progress. He swiftly tugs her underwear down, ruining it with the mess he’s made, and the fabric of her skirt collects around her waist as he moves it out of his way. The smell of her arousal overwhelms his senses and mixes with the sunshine of her blood, and he clutches her hips in place as his tongue approaches the source of it.

It’s no wonder he doesn’t notice the slight disturbance in the air when the door swings open behind him.

*

Elena could have stopped it.

She’d seen the shadows of two feet disrupt the line of light under the storeroom door as Damon’s fangs retreated from her flesh. She’d recognized the cadence of the gait. Vampire speed could have hidden them easily from view.

Instead, she’d gasped loud enough for the hesitant employee to hear, making sure her gasp wouldn’t be misinterpreted; she’d thrown the full force of her arousal behind it, syllables shuddering.

The door had opened anyway.

*

Jeremy’s face is shellshocked, disbelieving. His sister brings a warning finger to her lips, hushing a sound that isn’t coming, and he reflexively averts his eyes.

_Why isn’t she freaking out?_

More importantly:

_…why isn’t she stopping?_

The conflict in his expression is familiar; he’s walked in on her before, always an accident(?), and the mix of shame and contained lust never fails to make her muscles clench. Maybe she’s a little drunker than she thought, but the second she recognizes the look she knows she won’t send him away. 

(Who’s left to scold them?)

A strangely comforting smile searches for his gaze, the predator tamed behind a mask of benevolence. When he looks again (of course he looks again) he sees the warmth in her face, and he knows she won’t be mad.

He can’t let her watch him, though; too self-conscious to hold her gaze, he steps behind a merciful set of shelves and stares at the wall, adrenaline coursing, still not sure if he’ll stay.

The sound she makes clinches his decision for him, and he unzips his pants as quietly as he can manage.

*

The superficial flinches of her exterior are matched by a profound pulsing behind her pelvis, and she grips Damon’s hair so hard she knows it must hurt. He doesn’t complain; she can hold any part of him with whatever force she wants, as long as she doesn’t stop moaning like that.

His tongue traces the outline of her cunt, and her hips move towards him involuntarily. He pushes her roughly against the plaster, nearly punching into it, and bruises form and heal in rapid succession; she laughs a breathy laugh, yanking harder at his hair, and he pushes folds aside to gently nudge at illuminated nerves. She sinks down into him, the wetness of his tongue collecting her own wetness along it, and she makes sure her breath can be heard in every part of the store room. He takes her long-healed leg over his shoulder, tonguing deeper into her, and the wall scrapes her back open as she moves a few inches down it. The pounding in her clit is more and more insistent, sparked by his expert movements, and she can’t support her own weight; his hands a vice, she lets him hold her up as her legs turn to putty.

*

Jeremy squirms guiltily, the sound of Elena’s nearing orgasm sending blood rushing insistently to his cock.

He can’t help it. He has to look.

Trying not to let her see him, he peers between the open shelves, hand lightly stroking his stiffness. Her eyes are closed, her face unlike he’s ever seen it—deep in concentration, out of control. She’s always in control. Her scattered features are utterly novel to him in their current state, and she barely even looks like the sister he grew up with. 

(Except, she does. She is.)

Hungry eyes scan the furrow in her brow, the wrinkling skin around her eyes squeezed so tight, the swollen lips in a perfect “o.” The heaving of her covered breasts, the white of her clutching knuckles, the crook of her bent knee.

She’s the most stunning thing he’s ever seen. 

He speeds his strokes and watches her head tilt back, exposing her elegant neck beading with sweat. Swipes over his tip distractedly as her vocal cords vibrate ecstasy. Steadies himself on the shelf as the rapidness of his motion combined with the weakness of his sister’s lower half sends a tingling shock through him, threatening to expose him as an accidental “ah” escapes his throat; he melts into himself, clapping a hand over his utterance as insistent waves radiate through him.

If she hears it, she doesn’t look for its source, but—is he imagining it?—a tiny smile joins the distraction on her face.

*

Damon is utterly lost in Elena—her taste, the feel of her leg weighing on his shoulder, the pain she’s digging into his scalp. Never has a woman consumed him so completely, and he leaves Hail Marys between her legs as she fights the pressure of his hand to grind against his mouth.

“Fuck,” she stutters, ready to lose control. Damon’s fingers travel to her entrance, easing inside her and curling towards him, and he moves them up until a particularly unhinged shout tells him he’s found the right spot. He works over it mercilessly, savoring the increase in wetness around him, and he speeds the pace of his tongue to match relentless fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” she says again, “ _fuck_ ,” and he feels her putty legs start to tense again.

“Harder, _more_ ,” and he circles her clit wildly, and she feels a mounting joy leap inside her. Final insistent thrusts build her into frenzied clenching, and she feels Damon’s lips curve against her in satisfaction as she jerks forward, bowed with the power of her orgasm, holding onto him for dear life as the rocking waves radiate from her stomach to her thighs. Weakness overtakes her, and she collapses to the floor, Damon coming up to stroke her face as it relaxes momentarily into blissful oblivion.

*

When she returns to her senses, she glances towards the shelf where her brother had shielded himself, and sees he’s slipped out in time to escape notice. She eyes the dish towel he's left behind draped over a rung, and a dark satisfaction crosses her brow.

Then she rolls lazily to straddle Damon, skirt still raised, hand wandering into his lap.

His eyes roll back, his lashes flutter, and her teeth flash white in the dark.


End file.
